All Is Not Forgotten(4)
They both remembered this later, and how petty it had seemed after the brutal rape of their daughter.
One of the nice things about a small town is that people bend the rules when it seems appropriate. The fear of being reprimanded, or even sued, does not loom quite so precariously as it does in a larger community. So when Detective Parsons called the Kramers, he did not tell them what had happened, only that Jenny had been drinking at a party and was taken to the hospital. They had been immediately reassured that her life was not at all in danger. Tom was thankful for this, for being spared the few minutes of agony as they drove from the dinner to the hospital. Every minute after learning of the rape had been just that for Tom—unrelenting agony.
Charlotte had not been quite so appreciative, because the partial truth caused her to be enraged at her daughter’s carelessness. The whole town would surely know, and how would that reflect on their family? On the way to the hospital, they had discussed punishments, weighing the impact of grounding or having her phone taken away. Of course, when they did learn the truth, it was guilt that found its way into Charlotte, and for that she was resentful of the misinformation. It is understandable, having been presented with a reason to be angry at your child only to then find out she had been so viciously assaulted. Still, I identified more with Tom on this. Perhaps it is because I am a father and not a mother.
The hospital lobby was empty when they arrived. There had been some attention given over the past several years to fund-raising and upgrading, and the results, while more cosmetic than substantive to many minds, were noticeable. Wood paneling, new carpet. The lighting was soft and there was classical music playing from the wireless speakers that hung discreetly in the corners. Charlotte “stormed” to the front desk (Tom’s word). Tom caught up and stood beside her. He closed his eyes and let the music calm his blood. He was concerned that Charlotte would be too harsh, at least for what this moment called for, and he wanted to “balance her out.” Jenny needed to sleep, to know her parents still loved her and that everything would be all right. The consequences could wait until they were all sober and clearheaded.
The Kramers knew their roles within the family. It was Charlotte’s task to be the disciplinarian with their daughter. With their boy, Lucas, the roles were often reversed, likely because of his age (ten) and his gender. Tom described this arrangement as though describing a blue sky—it was as it should be, as it is in every family. And he was right in theory. There are always roles to be played, shifting alliances, good cops and bad cops. With the Kramers, though, the natural ebbs and flows seemed to have given way to Charlotte’s needs, with the others taking parts she did not monopolize. In other words, the normalcy Tom attempted to ascribe to their family would prove to be quite abnormal, and untenable.
The nurse smiled at them sympathetically as she released the lock on the door to the treatment rooms. They didn’t know her, but that was true of most of the support staff at the hospital. Lower-salaried professionals rarely lived in Fairview, coming in from the neighboring city of Cranston. Tom remembered her smile. It was the first hint that this was a more serious incident than what they had been led to believe. People underestimate the hidden messages in a fleeting facial expression. But think about the type of smile you would give a friend whose teenager got caught drinking. It would express a comical type of empathy. It would say, Oh man, teenagers are tough. Remember what we were like? And now think about the smile you would give if that teenager had been assaulted. That smile would surely say, Oh my God! I’m so sorry! That poor girl! It’s in the eyes, in the shrug of the shoulders, and in the shape of the mouth. When this nurse smiled, Tom’s thoughts shifted from managing his wife to seeing his daughter.
They walked through the security doors to triage, and then to another circular desk, where nurses processed paperwork and files behind computer screens. There was another woman, another worrisome smile. She picked up a phone and paged a doctor.
I can picture them in that moment. Charlotte in her beige cocktail dress, her blond hair carefully pinned up in a twist. Arms folded at the chest, posturing for when she first saw Jenny, and for the staff who she would imagine were passing judgments. And Tom, half a foot taller as he stood beside his wife with his hands in the pockets of his khaki pants, shifting his weight from foot to foot with increasing concern as his instincts fueled his runaway thoughts. Both of them agreed that those few minutes they waited for the doctor felt like hours.
Charlotte was very perceptive and quickly spotted three police officers drinking coffee from paper cups in the corner. Their backs were facing the Kramers as they spoke with a nurse. The nurse then caught Charlotte’s eye, and a whisper later, the officers turned to look at her. Tom was facing the other way, but he, too, began to notice the attention they were drawing.
Neither of them would recall the exact words the doctor used to tell them. There was apparently a brief acknowledgment by Charlotte of knowing of each other—the doctor’s daughter being one grade below Lucas at the elementary school—which then made Charlotte increasingly concerned about Jenny’s now tarnished reputation and how it might trickle down to their son. Dr. Robert Baird. Late thirties. Stout. Thin light brown hair and kind blue eyes that grew small when he said certain words that caused his cheeks to rise. Each of them remembered something about the man as he started to discuss her injuries. The external tearing of the perineum and anus … rectal and vaginal lesions … bruising to the neck and back … surgery … stitches … repairs.